There is an ancient tune,
as old as the wandering moon.
It floats on gentle breeze,
of a woman weeping.

It moans softly through the trees
and haunts you when you dream.
Her tears are like a gentle stream,
of lost lullabies she will never sing.

It whispers faintly in the rain
emptiness of arms that never fade.
Death and loss is all that pervade
on her nightly serenade.


ALesiach © 01/01/2015